Although as it was actually part of my birthday present from my sister, I suppose I'd have got it back eventually. And as she is a champion complaints-letter writer, she would have sprung vigorously into action and got someone's head on a plate and an apology with it.
The Royal Mail, formerly the Post Office, with its glorious history, is dying on its feet.... I don't mean to sound quite so pompous, but if you live in the UK you'll know what I mean. Time was, delivering post was a sacred duty, regardless; postcards marked "to the nice ginger-haired family whose name we can't remember but who live in a little white cottage in North Wales with a small bridge over the stream next to a blue shed..." had a good chance of reaching their destination. And postmen rang next door's bell if you were out, and asked the neighbours to take your parcel in.
I'm going to watch BBC's Panorama tonight, wearing a lemon-sucking face, and heckle the telly. And then I shall get a grip before I turn into one of those bitter and twisted chronically-complaining women that people dread meeting in the street. "Quick, hide! Here's that mad woman in the granny nightie and the hoodie dressing gown - she's frothing at the mouth and going on about the postman again!"
Tomorrow I shall be all sweetness and light again, and drone on about my barely-visible new cat. I know you're wondering how he's getting on, or if Scooter and Millie have eaten him.